“Yes, lad? You had a bit of an accident.”
“A bit? She fireballed me.”
“No need for the drama, Dill. It wasn't a fireball. Gunpowder on the end of an arrow, I think you'll find. Besides, it not like she was aiming at you, was it? She was trying to take down the golem. You were just collateral damage.”
“That makes me feel a whole lot better.”
“Good to know.” Harold had received special training in sarcasm from Jasfoup but despite his Oxford degree in literature he was still generally disinclined to notice it. Offer him a rose, though, and he could read the subtext a mile away. “Listen, I've sent Devious for some food. See if we can get you patched up.”
“You have lovely eyes.” Harold couldn't remember what the looked like offhand. Hadn't they been white-in-white with little dots for pupils?
“You want me to put some blood on your eyes?” Harold frowned. That sounded odd, even for a zombie. “If you like. Open them then.” It took him a moment. “Oh, you can't. That's the problem.” He squirted a few drops of blood over each cracked eyelid, almost surprised the eyeballs hadn't been cooked away underneath. Zombies were more resilient than he gave them credit for. “I should write a book on zombies,” he said by way of conversation. “How much damage they can take and what not. It'd be interesting.”
“Bags...I not be the protagonist.”